


Flying High

by rosefox



Category: Ballet Shoes - Noel Streatfeild, Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Airplanes, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 21:43:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15398103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosefox/pseuds/rosefox
Summary: Petrova takes Susan aloft, and Susan considers implications.





	Flying High

On their third date, Petrova finally drove Susan out to the airfield. It was a gorgeous clear afternoon; she put the top down and affected a terrible American movie star accent the whole way there. They arrived windblown and laughing.

Petrova led Susan into a hangar and switched on the lights. A lovely, trim little two-seater airplane sat there, all shiny metal with a red racing stripe painted down either side, looking like a racehorse at the gate. _Peggy_ was written along her tail.

"She's beautiful," Susan said, brushing fingertips against the fuselage. 

"She is," Petrova said proudly. "She's a Cessna 172, one of the best models going. I fell in love with her in Kansas and paid a fortune to have her shipped back over here." She rattled off trivia, but Susan wasn't listening. She was thinking.

"—and they're saying later this year Pan Am will start commercial transatlantic jet flights but I hardly believe it—"

"How common are aircraft collisions?" Susan asked abruptly.

Petrova blinked and shifted gears. "They do happen," she said, "especially in bad weather and over crowded airfields, but hardly ever, really. Er, why?"

"Less common than train crashes, then?"

"Oh, yes, considerably."

Over the years, Susan had learned to just say it straight out. "My brothers and sister were killed in a train crash."

"Oh. Gosh. I'm so sorry, that's horrible." Petrova hesitated. "Look, if you don't want to go up in her, we don't—"

"Oh, no, no, I do!" Susan surprised them both by seizing her hands. "I do. Petey, please, let's go up right now."

Petrova squeezed her hands gently. "Right now it is," she said. "Here, step up—" and she handed Susan up into the seat, like a gentleman helping his lady into a carriage.

"Aren't I on the wrong side?" she said. "Shall I scoot over and let you in?"

"American plane, remember," Petrova called as she ducked under the propellor and went around to the other door. "Takes a bit of getting used to."

Susan watched, fascinated, as Petrova ran through the instrument check and radioed the tower to obtain takeoff clearance. "Should I put my feet on the pedals?" she asked.

Petrova threw her a quick smile. "Wouldn't advise it, unless you've got a pilot's license you haven't mentioned."

Susan carefully kept her feet clear of the pedals, and folded her hands in her lap as though she were in church.

They taxied out into the sunlight and found the runway, and a moment later they were aloft, darting through shafts of sunlight like a dragonfly. The engine noise made conversation impossible, so Susan stared out the window and let the sensation of flight take her breath away. 

Petrova was a skilled and confident pilot, and there were only occasional little dips that made her stomach lurch as though she were aboard a ship. The countryside rolled out beneath them, a funny patchwork quilt. _I wonder what Narnia looks like from above,_ Susan thought, and then she tried her best to think about other things.

Petrova glanced over. "Are you all right?" she shouted. "Not feeling sick?"

"Fine!" Susan shouted back. It was mostly true.

Petrova beamed at her. "I'm coming round now to head back! Look out your window, you ought to be able to see Big Ben!"

As they turned, Susan squinted and made out something in the distance that might be Big Ben. "I see it," she called.

"What?"

"I see it!"

Petrova gave her a thumbs-up. They flew back to the airfield without further attempts to speak.

The plane bumped a bit on landing, but not so much as to give Susan any concern. Petrova steered them back to the hangar. When she cut the engine and the propellor spun down, the silence was deafening.

"How far can she go?" Susan asked eventually.

"On a full tank, about three-fifty, four hundred miles. Depends on how hard I push her." Petrova grinned. "Want to have breakfast in Glasgow?"

"We haven't even had lunch yet," Susan pointed out, and then she blushed, realizing the implications of Petrova's question. "But... yes. I would like that very much."

Petrova casually rested her hand on Susan's knee. Susan placed her own hand atop it. They sat for a bit under the blue-white glare of the hangar lights. The sun streamed invitingly through the doorway. (Was it called a doorway, the entry to a hangar? Susan would have to study all this new vocabulary.)

"I haven't been to Glasgow in years," she said quietly.

"Why not? It's lovely, there's a little—oh, trains."

"Yes," Susan said.

Petrova gave her a broad wink. "Know what the letter said to the postage stamp?"

"No, what?" Susan said, startled out of her somberness.

" 'Stick with me, kid,' " Petrova said, merrily butchering the American vowels. " 'We'll go places.' "

They were lovers for three years and friends for the rest of their lives. And Susan never set foot on a train again.

**Author's Note:**

> The year is 1958; Susan is 30 years old, and it's been nine years since the crash. Petrova's age is less certain, but she's probably in her late 30s.
> 
> Thanks very much to Marissa for the prompt.


End file.
